


holy moly me oh my

by AugustaByron



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Big Rico's Pizza, Fluff, M/M, Moving In Together, Sheriff's Secret Police
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaByron/pseuds/AugustaByron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Carlos, do you really think that being a public radio host pays a living wage?” Cecil asks. </p><p>or </p><p>Cecil is a member of the Sheriff's Secret Police.</p>
            </blockquote>





	holy moly me oh my

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself. 
> 
> Title from Edward Sharpe's "Home."

Cecil disappears right when all the difficult parts of moving in start, of course, with a cheery, “I'll be back soon!” and a wave.

Carlos swears and sweats his way through assembling Cecil's bookshelves, which aren't so much of the Ikea variety as the Hell Itself type. The instructions are written in runic script which makes Carlos feel ill when he looks at it for too long. He hears chanting in the back of his mind.

“Cecil would have been able to read this,” Carlos says. If this house has a Faceless Old Woman in it, she'll appreciate the conversation.

It sends a little thrill up his spine, the new house, the fact that he's going to live here with Cecil. They've been dating for a while now, and Cecil approached him three weeks ago, brandishing a handbook.

“For relationships based on past love, this isn't moving too fast,” Cecil said, and gave Carlos the handbook to read. Chapter Four, section three: Cohabitation. Carlos started house hunting the next day. It's just a rental, for now, with an option to buy if they like it. Carlos expects to like it.

The shelves are assembled, more or less, when Cecil skips back through the door. Carlos can't help smiling, even though he tries to look stern. He's had a moving-in beer, and the shelves didn't attack, and if the are any malevolent forces lurking in the house they're being polite for now. And Cecil is back.

“Carlos, I've just come from the Sheriff's office,” Cecil says. Carlos has a brief moment of panic before he remembers the breathing exercises his mother sent him.

“I didn't know the Sheriff's office was accessible,” Carlos says. Cecil beams at him, cheeks ruddy with joy.

“Since we've moved in together, I could officially register us as being in love,” Cecil says. Carlos feels his smile get wider. Officially registered. If it's important to Cecil, if he says it in that tone of voice, this is a good step.

“And you had to talk to the Sheriff for that?” Carlos stands up. His back protests, he's been sitting for a while. But Cecil fits neatly into his arms, so it's worth it. Carlos kisses the tip of Cecil's nose to watch him wrinkle it.

“Well, he is my direct supervisor,” Cecil says.

Carlos blinks. Breathes for a second. “Could you repeat that, Cecil?”

“Now that we're officially In Love,” Cecil says, and oh, goodness, Carlos can hear the capital letters, “I'm allowed to tell you! Carlos, my love, I'm a member of the Sheriff's secret police!”

“I thought you were a radio host,” Carlos says faintly.

“Carlos, do you really think that being a public radio host pays a living wage?” Cecil asks.

“Right,” Carlos says, and has to sit down for a minute.

A chair obligingly scoots to catch him. Carlos pats it on the arm. The chair hums with pleasure.

This is going to take some thought.

\-----

Cecil has the nerve to act like Carlos is the one being irrational about this.

“I don't see what your issue is,” Cecil huffs over dinner. They're cooking tonight, Carlos making chicken, Cecil making a salad. 

“Well,” Carlos says, “I don't really feel comfortable with the way the Sheriff's secret police invade the privacy of citizens, dear. That's not really a good thing to do.” 

“Oh, Carlos,” Cecil scoffs. He's cutting up a cucumber with a large, gleaming knife. Carlos eyes that knife. There have been four disappearances this week. “You're such a communist.” 

“That is not what communism is,” Carlos says, weary, for the fifteenth time. “And I'm a socialist.” Also for the fifteenth time. 

“I think you just need some time to get used to the idea,” Cecil says. “Do you want cherry tomatoes in this?” 

“Sure,” Carlos says. “I mean, it's just a little surprising. Considering that I thought you only had one job. And you've never so much as hinted towards having any other passions.” 

“I'm passionate about you,” Cecil says. He throws some cherry tomatoes into the salad bowl. Carlos takes the chicken out of the pan and puts it onto a serving plate. 

“That's not at all what I meant,” Carlos says. He's been cheated on by two long-term boyfriends, and one short-term girlfriend. He knows the signs that someone's time isn't full, that they aren't possibly doing enough things to fill a day. “When do you find time for all of it?” 

“There are things I have access to as a member of the Siblinghood,” Cecil says, worryingly. “I am actually much older than I look.” 

Cecil looks ageless. 

“Okay,” Carlos agrees. “Will you grab some glasses?” 

\-----

In the middle of his workday, Carlos is struck by a sudden thought. He calls Cecil, who answers promptly. 

“Carlos,” he purrs. 

“Are you on the air right now?” Carlos always asks now, after one embarrassing almost-phone-sex incident. He got winked at for days, whenever he went into public. 

“Not right now, it's the weather,” Cecil says. “Why?” 

“Do you hate Steve Carlsberg because he's a criminal of some sort?” Carlos blurts. 

Cecil just laughs. 

\-----

On Tuesday, Carlos comes home late from the lab. His clothes are a bit singed, but it's fine. Explosions can be exciting. 

Carlos's nephew sent a crayon drawing to the lab a little while ago, and it was of Carlos as a mad scientist, with hair curling wildly from his head, flames behind him. Carlos has decided to own it, rather than denying it. The drawing is on his and Cecil's refrigerator. 

There are four shapeless lumps of black fabric hanging from the coatrack when he steps inside the house. They could be balaclavas, or cloaks, or Cecil experimenting with drapery. Carlos looks at them for a minute, then carefully goes to the living room. 

Cecil is one of four people around a folding table. They're all holding cards. 

“Carlos!” Cecil says, delighted. “I can finally host poker night, isn't it exciting!” 

The others at the table turn around, as one. Carlos doesn't recognize the two women, but the other man--

“Hi, Carlos,” says Steve Carlsberg, waving a little. His glasses slip down his nose, he pushes them up with one finger. “Do you want to play?” 

Carlos smells like sulfur, and his hair might still be smoking, he hasn't checked. His boyfriend is a member of a secret para-military organization. Steve Carlsberg is in his home. 

Only one of these things registers as strange, anymore. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and pulls up a chair. 

\-----

“So not so much with the hatred,” Carlos says that night, when they're getting ready for bed. 

“We all have to make sacrifices for the Siblinghood,” Cecil says, terrifyingly earnest. “Steven is my partner. We're forced to play at enmity in public to decrease suspicion.” 

“What about the Apache Tracker?” Carlos asks, going through his mental list of Cecil's other enemies. 

Cecil pulls a face. “I hated him because he was a real racist jerk,” he says. 

Carlos tackles Cecil into their bed. 

\-----

Carlos's  _abuela_ believed in aliens. The proudest moment of her life was when they went to Roswell on a family vacation and she was able to correct a museum employee on the facts of Area 51. 

“Mom,” Carlos's mother hissed. “Not in front of the cameras.” 

Carlos was raised with a healthy skepticism about the government, and the “truth” that they provided for the populace. He was also raised to believe that the police were not to be trusted. The day before he went to kindergarten, his mother made him repeat the Fifth Amendment until he had it down perfectly. 

“You can understand that I'm just worried about the gross violations of our civil liberties,” Carlos tries to explain on date night. Cecil has designated certain areas safe to talk, and Big Rico's Pizza is one of them. Big Rico, Cecil explained, is a friend to the Siblinghood. 

“There are no civil liberties in Night Vale,” Cecil says. His piece of pizza drips grease onto his paper plate. Big Rico is using contraband wheat flour again this week. 

“See, that's just not really something I can get behind,” Carlos tries to explain. Cecil raises one eyebrow at him. 

“Would you rather allow Night Vale to consume itself?” Cecil asks, which is, yes, a fair point.

“I would like to state for the record that I give only tentative approval, in only this specific circumstance,” Carlos says. 

“Noted,” Cecil says, and reaches across the table to take Carlos's hand. 

\-----

Sometimes, Carlos comes home and Cecil is interrogating a suspect. 

“Would you get me a glass of orange juice, please?” Cecil asks. “Memory wipes decrease Vitamin C, and it's flu season.” 

Sometimes, Cecil comes home and Carlos has exploded something. 

“Oh, Carlos,” Cecil says, when that happens, and comes over to kiss Carlos, or goes to get the fire extinguisher.

A year later, they go to the bank. It's time to get a mortgage. 

 

 


End file.
